


saudade

by vehlr, weatheredlaw



Series: logolepsy [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Racism, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Married Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-23 16:25:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6122428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vehlr/pseuds/vehlr, https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>saudade</i><br/>(n.) a nostalgic longing to be near again to something or someone that is distant</p><p>or: They always knew they would separated by the inevitable. A tried and true method prevents them from feeling the loss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. letter set 1

**Author's Note:**

> _And_ we're back. Sort of. Feels good to write letters, we can both agree on that.
> 
> As always, anything Varric is V, anything Cassandra is W.L. Enjoy!

My love, though hardly an hour has passed since I last saw you, already my heart aches. I am jealous of Countess, that she will be able to lay eyes on you when I cannot. The feel of your hands and the sound of your voice are still fresh in my mind, and I will cling to them as long as I can. Your tactic of trying to keep me home for as long as possible, while enjoyable, has unfortunately failed. Of course I will miss our bed, your warmth, and everything about you. But I think I always knew this day would come, that my homeland would not be able to let go of me as easily as I thought I had let go of it. My uncle’s passing was unfortunate, as you remember, and in all fairness, I do owe something to him, though I’m sure you would disagree. Despite his methods, he did care for me and Anthony after our parents died, and I should pay him the proper respects.

My cousins are grown and married now. I suspect they will be the hardest to deal with. Not having you with me could very well prove to be borderline disastrous. But I have the legal proof of our marriage, as well as Nicholas and his wife for witnesses. Do you remember them? He was the one who guarded my mother’s dress, and they were last minute guests at the wedding. I believe both you _and_ Bran were fairly deep into your cups by the time you met him. You did enjoy him, you said, though I doubt you remember.

Needless to say, it will be difficult to acquire what I’ve come for - my mother’s things, for the most part. Her books and notes, my father’s swords. I was told our family portrait was destroyed, but Nicholas’s wife, Cecelia, informed me that it was not. I will have to scour my uncle’s estate when I arrive. No doubt Greta and Hannah will be there, waiting. I never was close to my cousins, but I pitied them, once I escaped. They could not, tied to my uncle as they were. I suspect their decision to marry men he did not approve of was more out of spite than anything else.

I will send this along, and try to write as much as I can while I am gone. Thankfully, I will not be as far from you as I have been in the past. I’ve recently found it rather meaningful that our respective homelands have always been so close.

Foreshadowing, perhaps, hundreds of years before we were even thought of. Something to consider, at least.

 

 

 

My darling wife, without whom things just don’t seem right --

                Countess seemed happy to see me, which was something of a shock. I had mixed feelings about her appearance at the window, I have to admit. It was good, because that meant you had written to me - and you know how much I love your letters, Seeker, I really do. But it was also a reminder of the fact that you’re not here. Or, I suppose, that I’m not there, where I really should be.

                Sorry.

                Your absence has been noted already - I have, on top of the countless meetings with Daisy and the City Guard regarding our absent elven friends, been called to several Guild meetings out of the blue. Nobody’s died, so I’m not sure what urgent business they’ve conjured up, but they’ll have to wait their turn. Daisy’s concerns are far more pressing, as another three homes stand empty this morning.

                Still, the timing is shit. I should be with you, standing by your side and… well, doing whatever husbands are supposed to do when their wife is trying to claim back her family heirlooms. Be charming and affable? I’m very good at that. I’m still clinging to the hope that I can get away before the fortnight is out, and come join you. Bran is refusing to entertain my optimism, though he does seem genuinely contrite about it.

                I vaguely remember Cecelia - she had the lace collar and that charming ring, didn’t she? Please apologise on my behalf if I was unseemly, but in my defense I _had_ just gotten married to the most amazing woman, and I _was_ with Bran, who is a terrible influence when drunk.

                I promise not to get Bran drunk whilst you’re away.

                They seem like good people, though, so pass on my best wishes. If you do need me as living proof of our marriage, though, just say the word and I’ll hire a doppelganger to run the city for a day or two. Shit, I should have just done that in the first place…

                Yes, yes, I know I can’t do that. But I mean it, Seeker. If they get too shirty, I’ll bring my charisma and my crossbow and we’ll straighten things out dwarven-style.

                Our bed is too big, by the way, for just me. I’m fairly certain I got lost trying to roll over this morning. So clearly you need to finish your business and come back to rescue me, as I’m incapable of surviving on my own. And nobody laughs at my terrible jokes in the right way - they laugh, but I can tell they don’t mean it. At least when you pretend to laugh I know you love me anyway.

                I miss you. I forgot how much it ached when you weren’t around.

                Yours, pining,

                -- V.

 

 

 

My love, I am so desperate for your company that I would no doubt approve such an egregious breach of power. In fact, I will personally vet lookalikes when I return, if it means you might be able to join me for less enjoyable excursions such as this in the future.

I have not been able to sleep since I arrived. The reasons are twofold and not at all pleasant. Of course, I miss your presence. But sleeping in my old room, realizing just how much it was not the room of a child, but that of a glorified political prisoner. You would hate it - there are no books, only one window, and a terrible portrait of the king hangs over the fireplace. That is a recent addition. I can only wonder who placed it there - my cousins are not that vindictive, and I doubt my uncle would have entered the room once I'd vacated it. Indeed, only one recent dusting seems to have occurred.

The old staff is largely still intact. I was greeted as warmly as I could be by my uncle's former butler, but the others do not remember me well. It matters little - I dined with Cecelia and her husband and children the night before. As you said, it is good to have people on my side. My cousins did not greet me right away, but I received a joint letter from them both inviting me to Chantry services tomorrow morning. I should go, but it will mean hours on my knees in silent prayer, and I will have to wear this terrible gown far sooner than I'd hoped. You remember it - I showed it to you before I left. All black and closed up. Skirts heavier than any sword. I do appreciate the seamstress in Kirkwall who made it for me on such short notice, but she was far too inspired. It will look like the debut ball I never had when I show up to services. Hardly demure, but then, demure was never a word to describe me.

If you should receive correspondence from Lady Seeker Moira, please send it with Countess in your next letter. I must make arrangements to see her before the rains become too heavy in the Hunterhorn Mountains. Leliana already knows where I am. Another trip to Orlais will be in order before too long. I know you do not wish to hear of more departures, but this is our current circumstance.

Enough of me though, my love. How fairs our city? I spoke with Merrill briefly before I left and promised to pass on her information to the Divine. The Inquisitor, too, will be interested to hear what she has to say. Perhaps she could join me the next time the Exalted Council meets.

Don't let the Guild dictate your schedule. I understand the two of us have not had our proper introductions. As the lady of House Tethras, it is my duty to an extent to have some dealings with them, but I trust they will understand you have greater things to handle than petty scuffles over supplies.

I do hope you are taking care of yourself, Varric. I should hate to return and find you miserable. Know that you are in my thoughts, and my dreams.

 

 

 

To my wife, for whom all my efforts are for --

                I’m rather taken with the image of you on your knees, Seeker… though that dress does nothing for me. Don’t get me wrong, you look good in it, but it represents everything you’ve told me about Nevarra - which is hardly a glowing report. Still, the Maker might be kind and help speed things up for you. I’ll be sure to pray for such an outcome, myself.

                Yes, me. In a Chantry. Without you. No, pigs are not flying. That’s the problem with habits, they’re hard to break. I suppose that was the point, though, when you asked me to go with you. _Devious_ wife. I’m so proud.

                I’m struggling to picture such a bleak room. No books? What did you _do_ as a child? Do you need me to start writing another story for you to read to pass the time between prayers? And a portrait of the king, just to remind you of his presence in Nevarran life. How droll. Maybe I should hang a portrait of myself in all the guest rooms, if that’s accepted practice. Wouldn’t do to be out of fashion, would it?

                I’m kidding. The very idea is ridiculous, even for _me_.

                No Seeker seals on your correspondence today, but I’ll bear it in mind. And I know you’ll have to head out before the season changes, but I knew that when I married you. You have a world to put right, and I’m lucky enough to be the place you call home, and that’s enough for me. I’ll try to weather it with my usual levels of stoic bravery - and by that, I mean I’ll make good on my threats to tie you to the bed next time.

                The city is fine - the Hightown renovations are almost complete, though the winds are proving more and more an obstacle to the roofers. Daisy recommended some plants for the beds that line the streets, though I think she’ll hand that job on to someone else. Yesterday saw the arrival of six Dalish elves to her community - ostensibly to trade, but I have my best eyes on them in case their cause is less noble - and she’s been her usual bright and hospitable self.

                The Guild have been suspiciously quiet as of late - I expected more of an uproar surrounding our wedding, but either they’re pretending it didn’t happen (likely) or they decided it wasn’t worth making an enemy out of me yet (also likely). And as my wife, yes, technically you’ll have to deal with them at some point, but I’m in no rush to subject you to the intricate dealings of dwarven merchant politics. Still, I have a lunch with a few key members tomorrow afternoon, and a formal meeting next week. Should be interesting, at the very least.

                I’m not miserable, as such. I miss you, but more than that, I’m _worried_ about you, Seeker. You’re the one having to confront this shit on your own, in a country that doesn’t know how lucky it is to have had you. You should have your husband at your side, that’s what marriage is about, right? Being there when it’s important. I should be there. I should be with you.

                Yours, concerned,

                -- V.

 

 

 

My love, I would prefer to have a dozen luncheons with the Guild than continue with these legal proceedings regarding my uncle’s will. You are practiced in this jargon - perhaps you should have come along after all.

Do not rush here, though. I am surviving.

Please remember to update the Inquisitor on any rumors you or Merrill may hear. They have written to me once since I arrived, and I believe there's been some progress, but in what they would not say. I am sure you may know more.

What I do know is that my cousins are attempting anything they can to prove my marriage is a sham. I don't say this to prompt your departure from home. Their tactics are more amusing than effective, and truthfully, born of desperation. They married wealthy men, but not successful men. They have little land and no titles between them. The girls hope to add my uncle’s estate to their assets and then take the gold. I have already said a dozen times that I am not interested in the money, but apparently I am the only one fit to inherit it. The clerk is in the process of communicating with another in Kirkwall. I do not know why, I brought all the documents, and they are sealed.

It doesn't help that I must continue to wear these horrible clothes.

Do you know what is in my room? The most lovely mirror. I had it moved from the library, and I think of you each time I pass it. Do you remember it as often as I? Your body pressed against mine, your hands over my breasts, your cock filling me?

I hope you aren't any place inconvenient. I also hope you know that as soon as this letter is written, I intend to think of you, as I have every night.

Please send Bran my regards. I'm sure he's glad to be rid of me from your offices for a short while. Perhaps he'll even get some work done.

 

 

 

To my wife, in a land further away than I'd like --

                Quite out of chance, I had to save reading your letter until last night, lying in our bed and making your favourite noises as I remembered vividly our first night with the mirror. You were so beautiful, opened up like that. You always are - I hope you remember that, that I see you like that always. It's rather distracting, but I wouldn't change it for a second.

                And then this morning I woke up alone and remembered you all over again. Not my preferred start to the day, but beggars can't be choosers.

                The Inquisition sent an agent to us, based on our letters - a sweet little elven scout, who promised to find out if there's an agent of Fen’harel in the city. Daisy's putting on a good show of playing host, but the cracks are starting to show. I tried to get her out of the city yesterday, to clear her head, but between the Guild lunch and a small crisis in Darktown I was penned in all day. Hopefully today will fare a little better.

                Speaking of the Guild, I didn't realise I would be dining with ol’ Davri Sr. I suppose they thought I wouldn't go if I knew. But he was as cordial as they get, which was… weird. Some small talk about you - which, of course, turned into me bragging about you for most of the hour. I can't work out what they wanted from it, and that frustrates me. I'm going into next week’s meeting blind. I don't care for it.

                Still, it can't be as bad as the Cousins Pentaghast. I've half a mind to get on a horse tonight - I know disparaging our marriage is part and parcel of their efforts, but that doesn't mean I have to like it. If they wanted wealth and land, they should have married a Viscount.

                Not, I hasten to add, _this_ one. I like the Pentaghast I have. Maybe you've heard of her - tall, dazzlingly beautiful, quick to stop my terrible jokes? She's _marvelous_.

                Legal jargon is my middle name - or it would be, if dwarves had middle names. You should have seen my mother's will, it was exquisite. She was determined to keep everything out of my hands. But as well you know, I worked my way efficiently out of that mess. Any problems, send me a copy and I'll sort it out.

                Oh, I'm sending you two letters - one’s from Moira and one looks like it's from Sparkler. Something to make you smile, at least.

                Yours, always,

                -- V.

 

 

 

[ _a hefty paragraph written in nevarran, then scribbled out_ ]

Forgive me, my love. My native tongue has been more pronounced as of late. I've written a dozen proposals for what to do with the inheritance and the property, all rejected by my cousins. I think I should go mad, before this is through.

I will confess to you now that I have felt ill since I departed. I think it to be nerves and nothing more. The nausea is bearable, and I've had tea to calm me. I wonder if being parted from you is the cause. Do you suffer as I do? I haven't eaten properly in a handful of days. The cook recommends broth, but it is thin and cold.

I've purchased more of the terrible garments I am expected to wear in my home land. To leave from here will be a great relief.

Does the guild still trouble you? I hope the senior Davri does not intend to give you more problems than solutions. Have you had your lunch yet? Tell me, how did it fair? I am becoming as practiced in legal doctrine as you, my love. I suspect I could attempt to talk circles around them, but it would likely be in Nevarran at this rate.

My cousins have no children, but Greta is heavily pregnant. I think she's now secretly pleased in my choice of partner. She wants to know how it feels to have a permanently barren womb. Maker, Varric, it was all I could do not to strike her. What does she know of anything in my life? What does anyone here know? Her sister Hannah, at least, has become more cordial. But still, it is cold here, among the people and the mountains.

Dorian’s letter was a reprieve. He is doing so well, and wishes to have us at his estate in Tevinter, at an imagined point in the future when things are more peaceful in Minrathous. Which is to say, we will likely be old and grey, according to him. I think he is being pessimistic.

Moira regrets she could not attend the wedding, but has apparently sent along some laborers who finished their work in the mountain for the Seekers. It is her wedding gift to us, apparently.

I say it each time, but I _ache_ for you. I miss you terribly. If you reached my side by dawn, I would not berate you, or have the energy to be angry. I would love you, without pause. But stay where you are. I can handle our separation, and my family.

I love you. _I love you._ Be well.

 

 

 

To my wife, my love, my guiding light --

                Your restraint amazes me. I wouldn’t have been as kind, had I been present. Hell, I’m still debating about how to send the woman a box of snakes or poisonous herbs hidden in flowers, or - shit, something. _Anything_. I know she’s family, but… that’s not family. Well, it is for me, but it shouldn’t be for you. For _anyone_. How dare she even _look_ at you --

[ _writing stops, resumes in a neater script_ ]

                I love you. And I’m so proud of you for your grace and restraint in the face of such… dire people. Even though every fibre of my being is telling me to drop this paperwork and come to Nevarra, I know you and I know how angry you would be at me for coming to aid you in something you’ll probably call ‘trivial’ or ‘not important’.

                It’s not trivial, it’s very important, but I married a strong-willed woman and I’m not going to poke the dragon on this one. ~~Yet~~. As ever, I will come running the moment you need me to. Don’t hold out for the sake of it, Cassandra. Please.

                I’m sorry you’re feeling under the weather, on top of all that. I won’t lie to you and say I’ve lived well since you left, but that’s less to do with illness and more to do with laziness. Meals are when I remember, or when Bran forces them on me. I think he’d rather you were here and distracting me, you know. I’m trying to be tolerable, but I’ve had to apologise more than once for my behaviour. If you keep feeling ill, you will see a healer, won’t you? And by that I mean _please see a healer if it keeps going_. I know you think you can weather it, but you’ve got rather poor form for leaving illnesses until they almost kill you, and I’d rather not lose my wife anytime soon.

                Moira’s men arrived this morning - which is just as well, as the Antivans will be gone before the end of the week. They stayed much longer than I thought they would, but they have lucrative contracts they couldn’t turn down. Still, at the rate we’re going our city will be painting-perfect before I die. Never thought I’d see that, in truth. Send her my thanks.

                Sparkler’s always been a touch dramatic. Mae wrote a few weeks back and her view was far more bright and cheerful. Maybe we can visit next summer, when things are a little more settled? You’ll like Mae, she’s cut from similar cloth. Dry humour. Very dry.

                In other news, the Inquisition agent remains with us. Daisy’s a little calmer, which is something - I think Rivaini’s return might have something to do with that. She won’t be here long, but it’s good to see her. She sends her love - wet, sloppy kisses, I think, was the exact phrasing. Oh, and the Guild meet tomorrow. Wish me luck - for all I know, I could be walking into an ambush. Then again, I doubt they’re going to hurl such grievous insults as your blessed cousin…

                I love you, Seeker. Don’t forget that. Family isn’t just blood, and your family back home miss you every second you are gone.

                Yours, adoringly,

                -- V.

 

 

 

My love, I have been drinking a tea for the nausea, and eating better. I swear to you, I am well. Not as well as I’d like, considering we are not together, but, still. It is better than I felt before.

My darling cousin is no longer at the proceedings. She has become quite heavy, and must remain in bed until she gives birth. I pray for her, of course, and wish her no ill-will, but things are better now that she’s made herself scarce. Her husband is timid, I see now why my uncle did not care for her selection. Hannah’s husband is a bit daft as well, and she does most of the talking. But, they presumably need my uncle’s funds more than I. I have been told it is a hefty amount.

A win, though, for us both today. I succeeded in having some of my father’s books sent back to Kirkwall. A great deal of them, actually. Nearly his entire collection was preserved in the cellar of our old family house, which was left standing as a symbol, or something depraved like that. I have not been in it, nor do I intend to. I have few memories of the place, and I do not need fresh ones. But, I feel you will enjoy the texts. They are rich, and many will need to be translated - from Nevarran, both old and current, and Antivan and Tevine. My father was a veritable polyglot; he spoke several languages, and wrote and read in them fluently. I hope to secure his letters later as well. You’ll enjoy those, I think.

My mother’s things are still firmly out of my grasp. I’ve been told Greta has a great many of them, for reasons I cannot fathom. She never said a word of my mother, and hardly said a word to me when we were children. She does not wear her things, or decorate with her pottery or paintings. I cannot reason how it would stand to benefit her should she keep them. Regardless, I will try and pay her a personal visit before she delivers, in hopes to shed some light on this bizarre behavior.

Please do not spare me a detail of your guild meeting. I must know who I should firmly hold a grudge against when I return.


	2. interlude: guild

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It _feels_ like an ambush. Every nerve in his body screams it, every fibre of his being vibrates with the impulse to spring the trap. Varric has been at this far too long to ignore such a feeling. Still, Varric Tethras does not back away from a Guild meeting easily these days, and so he enters the smoky room with a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vehlr here with some serious Guild business for our intrepid dwarf...

It _feels_ like an ambush. Every nerve in his body screams it, every fibre of his being vibrates with the impulse to spring the trap. Varric has been at this far too long to ignore such a feeling. Still, Varric Tethras does not back away from a Guild meeting easily these days, and so he enters the smoky room with a smile.

The whole council is in attendance - a rarity, and yet more proof of his feeling. Nearly twenty faces stare at him as he walks in, their expressions a mixture of concern and trepidation. At the head of the table, three men seem less concerned by his appearance.

“Ansco. Davri. Tollan.” He nods at each of the men in turn, a show of respect for the elders of the Guild. Davri does not return the sentiment - which, naturally, makes him the man to watch this evening. Varric takes his place at the opposite end of the table to the powerhouse and leans back with a genial smile.

“So clearly this is a set-up. Lay it out for me, gentlemen.”

The silence hangs for a moment before Ansco clears his throat. “Varric. You must know we have… concerns, regarding your wife.”

_Ah._ His smile tightens.

“Actually, I thought we were past that. Is there a statute of limitations on complaints that are baseless?”

“She is a human -”

“Like most of the population of Kirkwall, yes.”

“- she’ll _never_ make a good wife for such a high-ranking deshyr -”

“Tread lightly, Ansco. _Very_ lightly.”

“- and she can hardly inherit the Tethras mantle and deeds, or - perish the thought, if she grows with _child_ -”

Varric feels his blood boil. Teeth gritted, he forces another smile. “Perish the thought?”

Tollan takes over. “Well, the Tethras family has always been… _eccentric_ , since your father’s passing, but even _you_ cannot concede to any inheritance to _half-breeds_ -”

His hands slam on the table, a loud crack echoing around the chamber. “Enough.”

“Varric -”

“I SAID ENOUGH.” He takes a deep breath, straightening. _Half-breeds. Good wife. Perish the thought._ He feels _sick_. How could they even think of uttering such bile out loud? There was no denying that this was coming from a few core members, those who still clung to the ways of Orzammar and his father.

_Perish the thought, if she grows with child._

_She wants to know how it feels to have a permanently barren womb._

It bubbles in his chest, anger hot and slick. No. No more. He would not endure more of this, would not allow his wife to suffer another word of it.

Taking a moment, Varric considers his options. He had sway here, with those who relied on his name for trade, with those who had built their reputations on his money. But Davri had the balls of more than two thirds of the men present on his mantlepiece, and Varric could no more guarantee favour than he could fly.

He takes another breath, before staring at each man in turn.

“Distinguished members.” It is a courtesy, the last he will afford them today. “I hear you loud and clear. And, had this been two years ago, I might have begun to _try_ and understand your backwards thinking, because I needed your favour and I needed your help. But I am not that man anymore. I’m the fucking _Viscount_ , and you do _not_ want to piss me off.”

He half-fancies Davri smiles at that, but the moment his eyes find the man there is not a trace of emotion on his face.

“My wife - my Maker-blessed _wife_ is not something I will _ever_ negotiate on, with anyone. Your approval makes no difference to me. Remember that well, because they are words I will die for.” His fists clench. “My children, should I be so blessed, will be _my children_ , and _hang_ your prejudices. We’re not under the Stone, and you would do well to remember that, too. We are part of a city that I brought back from the brink. This Guild remains a force because _I_ fought for it. Because _I_ poured money into it. Because _I made it so._ ”

He stands, and some of them visibly flinch. _Good. Let them fear me._

“You have twenty-four hours to decide if you want to be part of a guild that makes a difference - to everyone, not just the members I see before me. If you’re with me, we can make this city the great hub of commerce it once was. We can make money, the right way. If you’re _against_ me…” He smiles, a thin line. “Well. Good luck to you, gentlemen. But Clan Tethras will be the last name you go up against, and I guarantee your family names will end in poverty for such a stupid act.”

His eyes linger on Davri. The man, as ever, is unreadable - a true man of the Stone.

“Twenty-four hours. I expect it in writing.” And with that, he sweeps out of the room, leaving the group of men to discuss his threats in hushed whispers.

He is still fuming two hours later when Bran finds him throwing potatoes at the training dummy in the yard - a recent addition at his wife’s behest.

“Varric, you are spoiling perfectly good food.”

“Shut up, Bran. I paid for them, I can throw them if I feel like it.” But his next shot goes unthrown, shoulders slumping.

“That bad?”

“You can’t even imagine.” He turns to the man, and the anger must show on his face, for Bran straightens, face falling.

“Oh. Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Are we at war with the Guild?”

“I don’t know. Maybe? I gave them a day to think about it.”

“Think about what?”

“Making an enemy of me.” He hurls another potato. “They wanted me to make sure Cassandra doesn’t inherit anything.”

“Ah.”

He does not repeat the remark about their potential children - does not want to think about that again. Half-breeds. He hurls another potato, growling. Not that he would not _welcome_ the idea of little rogues and Seekers running around, of course, but to judge them before the idea had even -

He stops, taking a deep breath. _Well_. He had never given much thought to the idea of children before, but now that the idea was out there… a little Seeker, with bright eyes like her mother and that Pentaghast scowl... he swallows, a strange feeling burning in his chest and settling low in his stomach. Clearly the entire world had their opinion on these entirely hypothetical children, but he wonders for the first time what his wife thought of the idea.

Perhaps she, like him, had not given it a single thought. Perhaps, even more terrifyingly, she _had_.

“Varric?”

“Hm?”

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Mostly.” He considers the potato in his hand for a moment. “Bran, can I ask you something?”

“Always.”

“Do you think I’d be a good… father?”

Bran laughs. “Is that a serious question?”

“Yeah.”

“Really? You _really_ have to ask?”

He sighs. “Alright, alright. It was just a question. Not like any kid’d have to suffer me anyway. The odds are stacked against us, even if - not that she _would_ -”

Bran sighs. “Oh, sweet Maker. You would make a _fine_ father, Varric. You spent ten years looking after your rabble, and now you take care of an entire _city_. I think any child would be lucky to have you as their father.”

The feeling in his stomach flares, and he manages a smile. “Thanks, Bran.”

The seneschal rolls his eyes. “Idiot,” he mutters, not without a fond tone. “I’ll clear your schedule for tomorrow, shall I?”

“No, I should keep busy. We’ll see what they say and work from there.” He tosses the last potato in the air, catching it with a snatch. “Who knows, maybe they’ll take my suggestion to heart?”

The silence hangs, and he sighs.

“Yeah. I don’t believe it either.”

“I don’t believe it.”

Varric stares at the messenger, who shifts slightly under his gaze.

“No, really. I don’t believe it.”

“Ser -”

“You’re serious?”

“Yes, ser.”

“Davri really got everyone to toe the line?”

“Yes, ser.”

“Why?”

“Ser -”

“Rhetorical. Sorry.” He tosses the man a bag of coin. “Thanks. You can go.”

“Thank you, ser.”

Varric watches him go, an uneasy feeling in his stomach. The guard would have to be doubled, his own spies tripled… something was not right about this. He scans the letter again, trying to find some hidden meaning to it. _Such efforts would be crippling_ … well, that was true for both sides. Varric had contacts and money, and Davri had the unwavering loyalty of most of the Guild. It would have been bloody for both of them. Perhaps even old Davri knew that. But then again, this was the same man who had sent assassins after him periodically for over two decades…

“Bran!”

The man pokes his head through the door. “Yes?”

“Any assassins at the door?”

“Not as of yet. Why?”

“They agreed to shut up and let me get on with things.”

A pause as Bran’s brow furrows. “Are you _sure_ they said that?”

“Yes.”

“Really? The Merchant’s Guild?” Another pause. “ _Really?_ ”

“I know! It defies all reason!”

Bran slides out of view, and Varric runs a hand through his hair, considering the letter one last time. There would be consequences, there had to be. But, for now at least, it was an apparent victory.

Varric wonders _why,_ and at what cost.


	3. interlude: cousins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “A _dwarf_ ,” she spits, in the Common Tongue.
> 
> “You will do well not to curse my husband, cousin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you like random OC's and vague references to government institutions that don't exist.  
> -w.l.

Cassandra stares into the mirror, and does not recognize herself. The dress she had worn from Kirkwall is too showy. She glances at it, remembers the good nature of the seamstress who had designed it for her, and hands it in the armoire. Varric will detest the new things she has bought, but no matter – she must visit Gretta today, and she can hardly do it looking like a peacock in mourning. The ill-fitting dress only appears to settle well on the curve of her waist – otherwise, it is torture, buttoned to the neck and dry, brittle around the lace the circles her wrists. She reaches for her tea – the ache in her stomach has largely subsided. She is on the mend. If all goes well, she’ll be free to depart for Kirkwall by week’s end.

Home, she thinks, is no longer here.

 

* * *

 

The ride to her cousin’s estate is rough, and Cassandra exits, her braid tumbling down her back. She corrects it in the mirror sat in the foyer, and follows the young servant girl up the stairs and to her cousin and husband’s room.

Gretta is lying in a state of near-repose, a book balanced on the swell of her stomach, the window shut tight and the curtains drawn.

“Cousin,” she says, and does not raise her head.

Cassandra lifts her skirts and takes the seat by her. “Are you well?”

“I am fit to burst, Cassandra. Whatever about my current state makes you assume I am _well?_ ” She shifts, setting the book aside and addressing Cassandra in Nevarran. “What do you want? You didn’t spare an hour of your day just to see _me_ ,” she says.

“You have my mother’s things.”

“Oh, for the Maker’s sake.” Gretta groans and puts a hand over her belly. “Get me that pillow.” Cassandra obeys. Gretta pushes it under her thighs and leans back. “Yes, I do. Father gave them to me. He said to burn them, but that seemed a waste.”

“So leaving them to rot in your cellar does them better?”

“I don’t _care_ about your mother, or her things. It was hardly important to me that some spoiled, bitter legacy of yours be preserved.” She waves a hand. “What even do _you_ care? You’ve hardly glanced back at your homeland since you fled. What would you even _do_ with them? Her clothes and paintings? Her books? It’s not as if you’ll have children to share them with.” She scowls. “A _dwarf_ ,” she spits, in the Common Tongue.

“You will do well not to curse my husband, cousin.”

“Yes, well, there isn’t a great deal you can do to me, is there?” And, of course, she is right. She sits, swollen and miserable, her hair a mess and her face angry. “Did you know,” she says suddenly, “that I had the silliest fantasy when I was a girl?” Cassandra shakes her head. “I really _thought_ that you might come back some day. I thought you’d come and take me with you.” Greta tips her head to the side. “Isn’t that the daftest thing you’ve ever heard?”

Cassandra frowns. “We were not friends. We were never close, why did you think that?”

“It wasn’t _about you_ ,” Greta snaps. “It was about leaving this place. I didn’t say it made sense, did I?” She folds her arms over her chest. “I almost left here, when you started up your Inquisition. I almost left Friedrich and everyone. I’d lost another…another baby.” She falters, here. “I couldn’t stand this room. All that happened here was death. But I didn’t go. Father was sick. So I stayed. Hannah and I lived back at the house off and on, to care for him. But I wondered…I wondered if you would have taken me.”

Cassandra doesn’t know what to say. Greta is raw, here. Open where she has never been before. So unlike the stony, pale-faced cousin of her youth. She swallows.

“I would have taken you.”

“Do not _lie_ —”

“It is not a lie. It is the truth.” She moves closer, hand hovering over the blankets. “There was a place for all in our Inquisition. Just as there is a place for you in the family I have made.” Greta looks at her. “Perhaps it is not an ideal one, but I have learned a great deal about making family where there seems to be none. If I hurt you, if I severed ties with you that cannot be mended, then I am truly sorry. But if any of this can be fixed, then I wish to do so.”

Greta stares. For a moment, she doesn’t seem very moved. But after some time, she reaches up and pulls the bell for the servants quarters above her bed. A young girl appears in the door.

“M’lady?”

Greta looks to her. “Svana, if you could, there are several crates of my aunt’s things in the cellar. Please have them sent to my father’s estate so that my cousin my look through them.”

Cassandra stares after the servant girl, feeling her cousin’s hand grip her wrist.

“Greta—”

“I do not know that I can ever leave this place. Maybe I could, someday, but for now, that is…impossible.”

“I will help make it so.”

She huffs. “If I do not _die._ ”

They’ve fallen back into Nevarran, easier than Cassandra imagined she could. “Don’t speak like that. You will be fine.”

“Perhaps. I know I am in no position to bargain for favors, but if you could, Hannah…Hannah needs the money. Perhaps you’ll find it in your heart to share, considering you seem to have acquired the husband our father would have approved the most of. Dwarf or not.”

“I never intended to take that money. I only wanted what is truly mine.”

“And you will have them.” Greta squeezes her hand. “Perhaps someday you will teach my child to defend themselves in battle, dear cousin.”

“Perhaps,” Cassandra says, “I will teach those things to _you._ ”

“It would be a miracle.”

Cassandra smiles. “I have seen them. Never doubt they cannot happen.”

 

* * *

 

_To my wife, my heart, my everything –_

Cassandra smiles to herself as she unfolds her husband’s letter and begins to read. It is…hard, harder than she imagined, being away from him for so long. But they are skilled in the art of distance, and to see his words on the page as she used to before, when their affair was so new, reignites more dormant parts of her heart, and she rests with the letter in her hands for a moment before reading on and overseeing the arrival of her mother’s things.

She breaks for dinner, and to compose a response, but the rewards that might be in those crates are too tantalizing to avoid for long. Cassandra sets the vellum aside and goes to one of the smaller boxes, prying it open and inspecting its contents. More papers, and she’s beginning to realize just how much of her parents’ lives were spent _writing._ These are not political theories, though – they are legal documents.

_To our children, who will undoubtedly survive us._

“Whatever is…” Cassandra narrows her eyes, reads on, and immediately calls a carriage to take her into the city.

 

* * *

 

“Precisely how much is here?”

The clerk looks over the documents, turns a few pages in a book, and shakes his head, glancing around at the other patrons. He writes down a number and shows it to her. Cassandra’s mouth narrows into a thin line.

“And who has it?”

“Government treasury. Your uncle couldn’t get it, according to these papers. It was very specifically designed that way. Seems you’ve come back at the right time, Lady Pentaghast.”

Cassandra nods and stands. “Thank you.”

The clerk sputters. “You’ll need an appointment with the treasury office—”

“I will not,” she says. “But I appreciate the thought.” Cassandra walks back out of the clerk’s building and settles back into her carriage, directing the driver to the government district. Nevarra City is expansive, spread out and complicated. She had only been a handful of times as a girl – being here now is completely strange to her, but she has learned to navigate it easily enough, or to at least pretend to know where she is going. It’s something Varric would advise her to do, she’s certain of that.

_Varric._

Oh, her letter to him still waits on her desk. She will have to break the news of this to him by written word, and it tears her apart.

A lurch in the carriage tells her they’ve arrived, but she stalls for a moment, composing herself before she agrees to open the door and step onto the stone street. The clerk was right, of course, that she’d need an appointment, but Cassandra has never had a difficult time of waiting for what she wants – her marriage is proof enough of _that._

Her name, though, seems to carry a bit of recognition. She’s ushered after an hour of loitering into a side room, offered tea and cake, and then told to wait some more. Another hour passes. Finally, the doors open, and a handful of men file into the room, seating across from her. She does not like where this seems to be going.

“Lady Pentaghast.”

“Sers.”

“We received notice from the clerk’s office that you are attempting to access a great deal of money.”

“I am attempting to gather what is mine. What is mine happens to be money.”

One of the men raises a brow. “You left your homeland years ago. You did not return for your uncle’s funeral. But you expect to be given something because your father left it to you?”

“It is a legal inheritance, is it not?”

“It is,” one agrees. “But you’ve made some decisions that might preclude you from leaving the country with it at all.”

Cassandra’s fists clench in her lap. “Decisions such as…”

“Marrying the dwarf,” one of them snaps. “Don’t play the fool with us.”

“Marrying a citizen of the Free Marches,” another says, gentler. “Marrying the son of a former house of Orzammar. Marrying—”

“In the summer?” she asks dryly. “Come now, gentlemen. Surely I cannot be prevented from my own inheritance because of who my _husband_ is.”

“Actually.” They each look at her in turn. Cassandra's stomach sinks. “Yes.”


	4. letter set 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric: I’m sorry I can’t do more, I really am. But I’m trying. Trust in that?  
> Cassandra: I have what really matters - I have you.

To my wife, my heart, my everything –

                 To tell you every detail of the ‘meeting’ would invite a mood upon myself so foul that you might mistake me for a much lesser man. But I won’t keep secrets from you, so at the least permit me to work my way up to it.

                I’m glad you’re feeling better, and that you’re eating well again. I can’t say the same, though I am trying. Always trying, Seeker, never doubt that. And I’m glad you have claimed your first victory of the trip - the crates have begun to arrive here, though everything remains boxed up. I thought you might have particular ideas about where things would go. I have to admit, I’m highly intrigued - we don’t talk about our respective families much, but from what you’ve told me your father was quite the puzzle. I’d have had a hard time charming him, I think.

                Greta continues to infuriate, it seems. Though I wouldn’t see her taxed on account of the child, her steadfast insistence on remaining inbetween you and the things you actually care about is getting old fast. But at least she isn’t present to further snipe at you. Small blessings.

                Little development in the mystery of the elves - two families have left since my last letter, and the agent is tight-lipped. I might write to Harding and see if I can wheedle a few details from her.

                And so… the Guild.

                I think I said it before, that I was surprised there wasn’t more uproar at our marriage? I should have kept my fat mouth shut. The moment I walked into that ‘meeting’ I knew. I knew they were coming for me, with sheer numbers and the weight of ‘responsibility’ on their side. I won’t trouble you with the phrasing, wife of mine, but suffice it to say I did not tolerate much of it.

                They wanted me to cut you out, essentially, and ensure that my holdings and investments stayed in dwarven hands. I told them that you are my wife, and that held far more weight than their opinion. I then challenged the lot of them, told them if they were against me I’d bury their family names, and gave them a day to think about it.

                Which, okay, was not my smartest plan. But the things they said, Seeker… shit. It was almost like Greta was in the room - if Greta was twenty-odd male dwarves.

                Luckily we don’t have to go to war with the Guild - Davri’s agreed to stick with me for now, given my achievements in getting the city - and the Guild - back on track. I think he’s waiting for something, but what that is I have no idea. All I know is that now, more than ever, I need to watch my damned back. One mistake could cost me - us. And I’m sorry I’ve put us in this situation, I really am. I’ve taken precautions, and I’ll continue to do so for a long while. But until the other shoe drops, things are probably going to be a bit tense any time I see another dwarf in the streets.

                Still, on the plus side, I don’t have to spend all our money on assassins.

                Enough about my terrible life choices, though. How are the talks going?

                Yours, curiously,

                -- V.

The talks have stopped, and then begun again, all in the space of a week. Greta has given birth, and though there was a slim chance she would survive the process, she is well, as is her daughter. I will visit them soon, as my cousin and I have mended the bridge between us. That is a long tale, perhaps best told by simply saying we spoke plainly with one another, and did not falter in the truth.

Greta has given up my mother’s things, and I have arranged for them to arrive in Kirkwall within the week. Most of her clothes needed to be destroyed, they were so eaten with moths. But she had her own books and writings, same as my father. They were, after all, revolutionaries of their own time. You and I should look over their manuscripts when I return. There may, perhaps, be some political theories worth publishing. I owe that to them.

I have not decided what to do with the portraits I discovered. I had forgotten they existed. We will see, I suppose, upon my return.

And my return, in question, is not far off. The money, again, is of no consequence to me. Let my cousins spend it as they choose, when they are able. I will return to you, and be rid of this horrid place.

[ _a new sheet, with fresh ink and a hurried hand_ ]

I am not free, not yet.

Sifting through more of my father’s papers has revealed funds untouched and in the hands of the government. And they are not for my cousin’s benefit, but my own. Apparently, my departure from my homeland so abruptly meant my uncle could not touch them. We married at the perfect time to secure them, but it will take careful negotiation and some time.

I did not care for my uncle’s money. But this -

Varric, we could _build things_ with this.

The school in Lowtown, the renovations to the Hanged Man, the irrigation system that has been in disrepair.

My love, you could not fathom the gold here.

And it is no one else’s.

We could grow your city, the Seekers, our family, our circle - it would mean a world of difference.

But it means remaining here, and negotiating it out of the hands of the government.

You are my husband. I am your wife and away from you. If it displeases you far too much, I will return home. But, Varric - they wish to bar me from it simply because I left. Because I am the daughter of two people who would have seen a new age dawn upon my homeland.

Because I married you.  
Even if I never receive it, to have our names dragged through the mud, as if we don’t _matter_ , is something I will not stand for. As if we did not give our lives in service to protecting these _fools._ Forgive me, my love. But it is something worth fighting for.

To my wife, _my wife_ \--

I love you. I love you more than I have words for, and every time I think about the love you have for me I am reduced to awe. I miss you, of course I miss you… but you keep fighting, Seeker, you keep at them. Don't take shit from a country that keeps trying to reduce you, and stand your ground the way the Seekers taught you. I would never demand you come home simply because I miss you, not when you're passionate about this cause. And, okay, sure, a small part of me - a very _dwarven_ part of me - is intrigued by the prospect of the money, but more important than that is your country recognising you, giving you your dues. If you are stuck in negotiations for long, you _know_ your loving husband is here to aid you in any way, and I'll come as soon as I can, but… I think your parents would be proud of what you are fighting for.

I certainly am.

The last of your fathers boxes are here, and the first of your mothers. Again, I'll wait for you to come home before I start poking through, but we might need to think about opening a Pentaghast museum. Bran keeps complaining about the dust, but he's interested in the pottery - I mentioned it when you last wrote, and he's been going on and on about how some culture would really benefit the keep.

Pass on my congratulations to Greta and her daughter - I don't really know much about childbirth but I'm glad she survived. Is it common for women to… die? ~~Only Aveline’s due to burst soon and~~ you know what, questions for the healers, I think. And I'm glad she and you are on good terms. Family is… a complicated thing, at the best of times. But keeping them is important.

Our city continues, as it always does. Moira’s labourers are _huge_. Seriously, what are they feeding them in the mountains? But more importantly they're efficient. I set them to task on the outer walls, and they're ahead of schedule, so I've had to rush the order for the new city gates. And the roofers have managed to start work again, now that the Winds have dropped, so the city is abuzz with noise once more.

The elves have lost only one more person as of late - the suspected agent of Fen’harel, who is now on the road with the Inquisition, and likely being barraged with questions. The Inquisitor wrote, thanking us for our cooperation, and promised information when it was forthcoming. But, honestly, it was entirely worth it for the calm that has finally settled over Daisy.

She came over for dinner last night and it was like a cloud had lifted. She was so _bright_ , Seeker. I hadn't even realised just how badly she had been muted by all of this. She misses you, of course, but I told her a little of your ventures and she hopes you're doing well.

Rivaini returned to the sea - though not before one last wild night that even I had to retire early from - but promises to visit the city again soon. I didn't tell her exactly where you are, I doubt she'll help with your negotiations, but keep a weather eye out all the same, you know what she's like for turning up unannounced.

I miss you. I know, I know it's not going to be for long, but this bed is colder without you and I've been so _bored_. Just being around you makes everything… _more_.

I'm hopeful I can get away next week. I remain hopeful, if not certain.

I love you. Stay strong, as I know you always are.

Yours, heart full,

\-- V.

My love, thank you for reminding me how very blessed I am. Your support, your love - how I could not have imagined feeling this way even a handful of years ago. You surpass my expectations each day.

Do you remember, I told you of my cousin Andromeda? She was the daughter of another of my father’s brothers, an uncle we did not know, who had died by the time his daughter married. She was the one who married in black? A very passionate woman, married to a practiced necromancer, apparently. She heard of my arrival and came to my uncle’s house a few days ago and has made herself quite at home.

I am suspicious. Even Greta and Hannah’s father did not care for his other brother. They were never close, we attended their wedding to be courteous. She claims she is here only for support, but I am unwilling to believe her. Perhaps that is the part of you that is in me, but the impromptu and convenient arrival of cousins puts me on edge.

If you were here…I entertain the thought too often. I know you cannot leave Kirkwall. And you know this as well. So long as your relationship with the Guild remains tenuous, you cannot disappear. You know how it would seem to them. You know they would not be noble in your absence.

Please feel free to look through my family’s things as they arrive, and do try and be kind when you view my childhood portrait. Those curls and that length were rather in fashion then, though my wretched hair did both naturally. Anthony always hated his. Maker, but I miss him, being here. He always made this house warm, always made our day bright, even if there seemed to be no hope.

How he would have _loved_ you, Varric. Ever so much.

Please treat Countess well. The winds are terrible this month. She requires affection.

To my wife, who knows far too well the realities we face --

                You’re right. I know you’re right. But that hasn’t stopped me from preparing a pack to grab the second I can get away. Curse of the optimist - never a thing I thought I might say, but that’ll be your influence, no doubt.

                I remember you mentioning her, and I agree wholeheartedly that you need to keep an eye on her. Nobody “just turns up” for support. She wants something. Maybe everything that’s not nailed down. I suppose honest words won’t work on her like it did with Greta? Keep that part of me alive when she’s around, at any rate. ~~Although I’d like a little more of me inside you~~

                As for things here, city life is much the same. The winds followed Countess home, and whilst I can soothe her ills with a little whiskey and what I’m sure she would count as terrible wing massage (for which I was rewarded with strangely-affectionate noises… I think?) I cannot do the same for the roofers, who have once again been thwarted in their task to finish the Hightown construction. Well, I could get the whiskey, I suppose… no massages, though. I reserve that honour for my best girls.

                That’s you, by the way. And apparently the Countess.

                My curiosity won out at the mention of portraits, and I have to say, you’ve been holding out on me, Seeker. Some of the brushwork on these canvases is exquisite. If I’d known all the best artists were Nevarran, I’d have commissioned a few myself. Looking into your past without you by my side felt… strange. A little invasive, really. But I couldn’t help but keep the portrait of you out a little longer. You were _adorable_ , Cassandra! Your cute little cheeks and bright eyes! Sort of makes you think, really, ~~what could happen if~~  how much time changes us. You grew into such a striking, beautiful woman, just like your mother. But you were changed by the things that happened to you and your family, both physically and emotionally. I can’t help but wonder, if things had been different, we might never have met. I might have fallen in love with a painting, and you with a faceless author.

                As much as some days are harder than others, I’m glad our lives led us here. I’m so grateful for your presence in my life, Cassandra, I really am. I hope you know that.

                Anyway. Enough of the sentiment, I’m starting to sound like an old man before my time. Speaking of old men, the Guild have given me a test - well, I assume it’s a test, or a trap, or something. They want me to propose a path forward, in light of my royal tantrum about how we weren’t doing enough to help others. So far I’ve had a few ideas, but nothing that really yields something in return. We need something that helps people help _themselves_ , and rewards the Guild. Like that old saying about fish, or something. Investing in people, rather than buildings. Ah, I don’t know. I’ll figure something out, I usually do.

                Bran sends his regards, as ever. I think he’s tired of me again - as much as he was enjoying the sudden burst of actual work being done in your absence, it does also mean he has to fend off my conversation as well… more fool him. And with Aveline stuck at home until she pops, he’s rather stuck with me. Which reminds me, I should pop in to see her, make sure she’s not trying to work from home.

                I’m surrounded by strong-willed women who can’t take a day off, clearly.

                Yours, still looking at that portrait,

                -- V.

My love, if I am asked to _defend_ my choice to marry outside my homeland once more, I may lose my mind. I spent _six hours_ in a room in front of a dozen men who are apparently in control of my father’s money. _Supposedly_ by marrying outside of Nevarra (and you and I both know if I had married a human man this would not be a problem for these daft, _pithy_ old fools), I have violated the law. I know of no law such as this. I have been combing the tomes in the library, trying to find out what they could be referring to, but thus far, I have discovered nothing.

This is an absolute waste of time, but I know what they are trying to do. They are attempting to exhaust me, to drag me before panel after panel until I crack, admit my marriage is a sham, or simply leave altogether. They, of course, do not know who they are dealing with. Nor do they seem to appreciate who my partner in all matters such as this truly is. If they think I will roll over, submit and do as I am told in this matter, then they will be sorely disappointed.

I have not been so angry in such a very long time. And the questions! They are so probing, so _invasive._ It was mortifying. They wished to know how long we had been intimate, if you were some sort of barbarian, if your city was as savage as they had heard. They wanted to know of Hawke, of your friendship, of your own lovers. I have refused them at every turn. I will not make our lives a spectacle. I will not be made into a fool.

And in the end, if this is all they can come up with, and if they are so desperate to have the money - then they may keep it. I have what really matters - I have _you._

Andromeda continues to make herself friendly in my uncle’s home. She brought her youngest daughter along as well - Allegra, though we share no namesake. I have had no time to investigate her motives properly. Whatever the case, if she is going to make her plan known, she had best do it quick. I am running thin on patience and mercy. I cannot promise to be kind to her much longer.

It is this dreadful place. The feel of it, it crawls under my skin, makes me into someone else. I fear I will need time, once I return. Time to become my true self again. There is so much _unhappiness_ , in this house, so much _ruin._ Each death only seems to coat the walls and floors, like dust and mildew. I suffocate under it, I cannot be free of it soon enough.

Forgive me, for despairing. It is a family tradition.

Tell me _something_ good, my love. Something to ease this ache, or part the shadows. There has been no sun since I arrived. I miss the gardens, and the light from the dawn as it falls through the window in our room. I miss waking up with you, feeling your hands on my body, your lips on my neck, my shoulders. I miss the way you make love to me, before we are truly awake, and the way you fix my tea at breakfast, and the way you steal away in the afternoon so that we might have time to ourselves.

I suppose I must remember, these are trials put to us by the Maker to give us strength. I only wish His timing had been better.

To my wife, my life, my light --

                A short list of good things:

                Every day you are away brings you one day closer to coming home.

                Every moment you are not here is a moment in which I can think of another wonderful thing to do to you when you get back. (It’s a long list, I warn you now.)

                Bran actually laughed at one of my jokes. (The one about the nug droppings.)

                Mother Clara almost laughed at one of my jokes (she told me to tell you she prays for your safe and swift return)

                Daisy is back to her cheerful self, and the community is once again a happy place to be. We’ve been invited to a feast when you get back, to celebrate… well just being around.

                I love you. That’s always a good thing.

                Bureaucracy is… exhausting. Its own special brand of exhausting. And they’re throwing out hoops for you to jump through in order to slow you down, but you’re Cassandra Dragonslayer Seeker Inquisition-Founder Viscountess Pentaghast. You are unbreakable, wife of mine, and I believe in you more than I have ever believed in anything.

                I wish more than anything you weren’t doing this alone - not least because negotiations are a speciality of mine. You can do anything you set your mind to, and I know that you _will_ prevail. But, if you find yourself needing a hand, there’s a dwarf in Nevarra City by the name of Thrandon Vrasco - the Merchant’s Guild isn’t a huge force the way it is in the Marches, but he’ll know if palms need greasing and where to find them.

                I have a meeting with the labourers at the end of the week, and the Guard-Captain wants my blessing before he signs off on the new recruits, but then I am going to make a break for it. The idea of you trapped in that place… it’s too much, Cassandra. You don’t deserve to be buried under so much grief and darkness, you don’t deserve any of this. I might not be able to bring the sun with me, but I can try and bring a little light anyway.

                I’m sorry I can’t do more, I really am. But I’m trying. Trust in that?

                Yours, always yours,

                -- V.

My love, there is more of you in me than you thought (though still not what you would prefer).

I have negotiated the transfer of the money to our names. The process was long, and difficult. Your friend, Vrasco - he pointed me in the direction of a few projects that needed attention. The Inquisition will that they are taken care of.

Meanwhile, the Chantry in Nevarra City finds its coffers rather full.

There is still quite a bit left for our own projects, and I am eagerly awaiting the moment when we might turn our shared attention to those - but I have a slight problem.

My presence has caused something of a stir, and there is no driver who will take me to Kirkwall. Nicholas and Cecelia departed yesterday for a vacation in Val Chevin with their children - their horses are gone. The driver who brought me here did not remain, for I had assumed there would be no trouble in securing transportation. Yet another obstacle. I suspect it should only last a week or so, and I will sort through it, and survive.

[ _a fresh sheet of vellum, and a quick scrawl_ ]

Do nothing rash. Vrasco has found me a carriage driver willing to take me to the border in a few days. If you might send someone to meet me, I will be with you sooner than anticipated. I am sending this immediately. My love, I cannot _wait_ to lay eyes - and hands - on you once again.

Your loving wife, who has missed you fiercely, with every bone in her body, Cassandra Dragonslayer Seeker Inquisition-Founder Viscountess Pentaghast _Tethras_

(One more name cannot hurt, I suppose.)


	5. postlude: carriage

The letter comes, and Bran has scarcely left the room, Countess cawing gently at his ear, before he hears Varric shouting for a carriage.

“What are you -”

“She’s stuck in that _ridiculous_ country - where’s that pack?”

“In the corner. What do you mean, stuck?”

Varric emerges, coat on and brow furrowed. “She can’t get home. Nobody will take her, it’s ridiculous. She’s my bloody _wife_ and she can’t even hitch a ride _home_.”

“Varric, you have a meeting -”

“My _wife_ ,” he repeats. “Are you really going to stop me?”

Bran sighs. “Just stay safe out there.”

“Yes, boss!” The Viscount practically skips out the door, and Bran takes a moment to sigh.

“I don’t know how she manages it, truly,” he says aloud.

Countess agrees.

Entering the office, Bran picks up the letter from its abandoned state, sighing as Countess hops from his shoulder to her perch.

A sheaf of vellum drops to the floor, and he bends to pick it up, frowning as he reads the hasty scrawl.

_Do nothing rash._

Bran sighs, rolling his eyes before heading out to the stable. “VARRIC!”

Varric gets frustrated when the driver insists they stop at the border.

“She’s -”

“Yes, Master Tethras, you’ve explained. But the horses need water, and the inn is the only place we can stop before the estate.” Holding the carriage door open, he beckons for the man to step out. “It won’t get done any faster, so you might as well stretch your legs.”

Grumbling, he slips out of the cab, kicking at the dust. “Fine. But make it quick. I’ll get us some water for the road.” Maybe some wine, he adds mentally, thinking of his wife a few hours away.

Inside, he glances over the bar, the day crowd something of a surprise -

“Seeker?”

She looks up from her drink. “Varric!”

He swallows as she approaches him. “Hi.”

Her hands cup his face, her smile tired but warm. “My love.”

“You made it to the border, then?”

“I - yes. It was a relatively peaceful journey. You did not have to come yourself, a driver would have sufficed -”

“Ah! Master Tethras!” The driver in question calls from the doorway, grinning widely. “Am I correct in assuming we won’t need to go all the way to the estate now?”

“Why would you -” She stills, the smile fading. Varric opens his mouth to reply, but Cassandra stiffens. “You did not read the letter.”

“Seeker -”

“ _Varric_.”

“Seeker, I -”

She cuts him off, an outpouring of angry noises and sounds in that accent that has only thickened with her stay in her native country. Varric understands very little of the Nevarran language - Bartrand had gained a base knowledge of it, but he himself had elected to learn Antivan to further their interests with the Princes - but from her tone and her expression he knows he is probably in a fair amount of trouble.

Unfortunately, her accent and her passion are quite distracting. He should be contrite, he _knows_ that, but all that swells in his chest is a strong desire to drag her into the nearest empty room and bend her over every available surface.

Which, he mentally concedes, would probably get him into even more trouble right now.

“Cassandra -”

She stops him again, another string of Nevarran that cuts with its efficiency, and by now there are a fair few turned heads, many of whom smirk at her choice of words. He winces, holding up his hands in weak defence.

“Cassandra, I don’t know what you’re saying - literally.”

She stops, before blushing and slipping back into the Common Tongue. “I said -”

“I get the gist, I think. But can I just say - I’m really sorry, and I will make this up to you, but we are still in Nevarra and that’s kind of the opposite of both our plans right now. So can we at least get into the carriage before you clarify _exactly_ how annoyed you are at me? I just want to go home.”

She huffs, but at the mention of home her anger abates, just enough. “Home.”

“Yeah. Our city, our gardens, our bedroom - it’s been empty without you.”

“And I without it,” she murmurs softly, before clearing her throat. “Fine, yes. Let us go.”

Her hand is warm in his.

Cassandra spares him the repeat of her words, and for that he is glad. He presses a kiss to her knuckles, smiling as she rests her head against his shoulder.

“I missed you.”

“And I you, my love.”

“I know you’ll be heading off to Orlais and the mountains again soon, but I think you should take a few days to relax. You worked so hard, in that mausoleum of a house.”

“Varric -”

He turns his head slightly, kissing her crown. “Just saying. Think about it.”

She hums assent, but he knows her mind is probably already thinking of the Seekers. He wonders if her training had helped her deal with the bureaucrats. Perhaps she had thrown her weight around a little - he smiles slightly at the image.

She speaks - Nevarran again, until she catches his face and sighs. “Forgive me. What are you thinking about?”

He swallows, looking out the window. “Aggressive negotiations,” he murmurs.

“Have the Guild made their move?”

“Hm?” He looks back, confused for a moment before he realises. “Oh. No, I was thinking of _your_ negotiating. Sleeves rolled up and that muscle in your neck all taught… it _does_ things for me.” He shakes his head slightly. “It’s obscene. I’m so bloody _dwarven…_ ”

Her fingers tighten around his, her laughter soft - music to his ears. “Oh, _Varric_.”

“What? I can’t help it. You married a deshyr, Seeker, you’re just going to have to accept that I find the thought of you negotiating your ass off… _extremely_ attractive. I’m going to want details, later. What you said, how you said it -”

She kisses him, soft and lingering, and it only serves to fuel his awkward erection as he shifts in his seat. “It was in Nevarran,” she points out, “you would not understand it.”

“You do _know_ the Nevarran is very attractive too, right?” He grins as she laughs again, swatting his arm. “Seriously! You’re hitting a whole set of boxes here all at once, you’re lucky I haven’t pushed you face-down into the cushions and had my way with you.”

“Why haven’t you?” she asks.

“You were upset with me, it’d be poor form -”

Her head tilts slightly, resting against his. “I am not upset with you now,” she murmurs, hand sliding in between his tunic and his chest hair. “And I have missed you sorely, dear husband.”

“C’mere,” he growls, tugging her into his lap. She is warm in his arms, her smile sweet as he curls a hand around the curve of her neck. “I missed this. I missed having you in my arms.”

“It was… longer than I had planned.”

“It was basically forever.”

She laughs. “Do not exaggerate.”

“That’s all I _ever_ do.” He grins up at her, drinking in the details of her face - the crinkle of her eyes as she laughs, the fondness in the lines around her smile, the joy reflected in those bright eyes. “I love you,” he says, because his heart struggles to contain it.

She kisses him in reply, her deft hands moving to tug at his coat, and somewhere between Cumberland and the road through the mountains they lose her breeches and his tunic and Varric kneels in front of her with that tight feeling of awe once more. She is breathtaking in repose, hips drawn up to the edge of the seat and lidded eyes meeting his with that playful smile on her lips, just _daring_ him to take her.

His hands trail over her thighs. “Beautiful.”

“Flatterer.”

He frees himself from the confines of his trousers. “Still true,” he points out as he straightens, lining himself up against her body.

“Yes, well, I -”

He tugs her hips forward sharply, entering her in one thrust. Her hands grasp the seat, eyes widening as she lets out a soft moan. “Ah - my love -”

He leans over her, kissing the soft skin of her collarbone. “Mmm, I missed you,” he murmurs as her legs wrap around his waist.

“And I you -”

She is cut off as the carriage hits a bump in the road, Varric forced forwards and deeper into her.

“ _Ah_ -” Her hands twitch around the cushions, and Varric grins.

“Mountain path. Bit bumpy.”

“Varric -”

He hoists her up, falling carefully onto the floor of the carriage and relaxing back against the seat as she towers over him, hands reaching out to balance on his shoulders. “Scenic, though,” he points out as she settles on him once more, mouth claiming hers and teeth dragging over her bottom lip with a groan.

The carriage hits another bump, and they bounce, her hands gripping his shoulders as she cries out again.

“ _Oh_ \- Varric -”

“I might have told him to avoid the main road.”

She manages a laugh at that, bracing herself on him. “Of course you did.” She tilts her hips, and Varric groans, hands tightening around her hips. “My love - oh, my love. You are so -”

Another bump, and they both cry out.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses.

“Yes, she agrees, putting her weight on her arms and rising up. “My sentiment exactly.” And she drops down on him.

Bran looks exhausted when the carriage pulls up, and Varric feels a twinge of guilt as he opens the door.

“Varric -”

He winces as he holds a hand up, before carefully carrying a sleeping Cassandra down the steps. “I know, I know. Sorry. But I needed her back.”

Bran nods, motioning for the guards to clear the path. “Rest. I will need you tomorrow morning.” He considers, before assenting. “Tomorrow afternoon. But I _mean_ it, Varric.”

“Thank you.”

They make it through the doorway before Cassandra shifts, and Varric chuckles as she opens one eye.

“I feel awful for him. You are a terrible boss.”

“If I’m a good boss, then I run the risk of being a terrible husband. When you’re home, you’re my priority. He’s always known that.” He presses a kiss to her forehead. “Besides, now we’ve got all evening and morning together. Are you complaining?”

Her arms wind around his neck as she nestles against his shoulder. “I suppose not,” she sighs contentedly, and Varric feels a warmth at having his wife back home in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end of that. For now. We'll be back!
> 
> -v&w


End file.
